


i'm feeling like a loaded gun (and when it's done i'm the only one)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Gun Kink, M/M, Pining, Undernegotiated Kink, brief mention of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10032365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: There’s something different when it’s Bucky’s hands cleaning his rifle, is all.“What's got you blushing, Steve?” Bucky asks, low and serious, and Steve flushes harder, hot to his ears.“I'm not,” he says anyway, and, ”leave it.”





	

At first, he thinks Bucky doesn’t know.

It’s stupid, of course, it’s dumb to assume Bucky might not have noticed. Bucky notices everything, these days, even sharper-eyed than he was before he ever fired a shot in this war. Still, though, Steve thinks - Steve _hopes_ \- that he doesn’t see it. It’s embarrassing; it’s shameful in a way it hasn’t been before, even if his priest and his CO and the entire goddamn American public might disagree. _You always watched his hands_ , he tells himself, _nothing new there_ , but-

There’s something different about it when it’s Bucky’s hands cleaning his rifle, is all.

Steve steals looks out of the corner of his eye. Bucky is always methodical about this, field-stripping it with the ease of long practice and laying it out into component parts. Meticulously careful as he pushes the cleaning rod into the barrel, and Steve looks away, takes a deep breath.

“What's got you blushing, Steve?” Bucky asks, low and serious, and Steve flushes harder, hot to his ears.

“I'm not,” he says anyway, and, ”leave it.”

Bucky doesn’t leave it. He sets down the cleaning rod, starts to scrub the bolt. When Steve glances over at him again, Bucky is frowning, chewing his lip like he’s thinking hard.

“You gonna take all night on that or what?” Steve says, because it’s late and he’s tired, because he wants to throw Bucky off whatever train of thought he’s going down right now, and Bucky shrugs, wipes the bolt clean and picks up the stock to oil it. Steve can’t help it. Focuses on Bucky’s fingers, how they’re slightly slick with the oil, glistening in the lamplight, and he’s flushing again, prickling with heat. His collar feels tight and he feels clumsy with longing, this want that’s sat inert in him for so long he knows it by heart.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, like he's drawing Steve's attention, and when Steve looks up at him Bucky holds his gaze. Picks up his revolver and very, very deliberately unloads it, bullets dropping out of the chamber.

“What-” Steve starts, voice rough, and Bucky clears the last bullet out of the chamber. Lines them up on the table, six bullets in a carefully precise row, fires the gun blank like he's testing it.

“Get on your knees,” he says, easy like he knows Steve’ll do it, and Steve does. Drops to his knees without a second thought, his cheeks burning. Looks up and up at Bucky standing at the table, the sharply clean lines of him. Steve knows he’s the one who’s changed, adrift in this stranger’s body, but he catches himself thinking it’s Bucky who’s different. It’s still _Bucky_ , he knows that much, but this man with his razor-sharp jaw and glacial sniper focus, the way his eyes burn ice-cold with something Steve doesn’t understand, that’s not the person he remembers.

Bucky looks intent, dangerous; Steve ducks his head, swallows hard.

 _Are you alright?_ he’d asked Bucky once, just once, and Bucky had smiled very bright and shoved Steve’s shoulder.

 _Yeah,_ he’d said, _‘course I am, just tired, that’s all_ , and Steve had tried very hard not to see how the smile hadn’t reached his eyes.

He wants to ask again; it’s right there on his lips, and then Bucky tilts his head, looks at Steve very considering, and the words die.

“Captain,” Bucky says, quiet, and it doesn’t sound deferential; it sounds like an order, just the way _get on your knees_ was an order, and under that, it’s mocking. Bucky’s not following the Captain, he made that real fuckin’ clear, and Steve feels obscurely like this is setting things right between them.

Bucky takes a step toward him, still slow and precise like he’s measuring every movement.  It’s winter, cold in this abandoned building, and Bucky’s got his jacket done up tight, buttoned all the way to his throat. Steve’s been wishing, all evening, that he was looser, slouching in his shirtsleeves the way Steve remembers drawing him every long hot New York summer, but he understands, suddenly, that this broad-shouldered soldier has taken that boy’s place. There’s no going back from here.

Bucky gets so close Steve could reach out and touch him, could lean forward and press his face against Bucky’s hip, the rough wool of his uniform. He doesn’t move, just tips his head back a little further so he can keep looking at Bucky’s face. God, he’d do a lot to have Bucky look at him just the way he’s looking right now; he feels caught in it, trapped. Bucky hasn’t even laid a hand on him and Steve couldn’t move if he tried.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “that’s good, ain’t it, honey?” Touches two fingers to Steve’s chin, runs them down the line of his throat to his Adam’s apple, and Steve hears himself make a desperate noise.

It is good. It’s so _fucking good_ , and he didn’t know- he-

“Shh,” Bucky murmurs. “Quiet, Rogers. I got what you need.” And then his fingers are gone and he’s pressing his revolver to the hollow of Steve’s throat, dragging it up and up until it’s resting against Steve’s mouth. “You want it? Yeah, you want it.”

Steve parts his lips; can hear his own breath dragging out ragged, and Bucky pushes the barrel of his gun in, just a little. It's cold on his lips, on his tongue. Tastes of metal and gun oil. When he sucks it in, the scope scrapes against his top lip, his teeth; he hisses at the flare of pain but tongues at the barrel anyway, feels Bucky settle his left hand heavy in Steve’s hair.

“Come on,” Bucky says, “show me how you'd use that mouth, baby. So fuckin’ pretty it's like you were made for this.”

 _Jesus_ Steve is hard, his pants straining and his knees aching where he’s kneeling on the stone floor. He can feel how he’s still hot with shame, flooded with it - _a pretty mouth like he was made for this,_ god, _fuck_ , it’s filthy - but Bucky’s hand is in Steve’s hair and Bucky’s gun is in Steve’s mouth and Bucky is holding him down, holding him here, looking at him mean and tender all at once.

“That’s how you’d suck it? Jesus, how long you wanted it, Steve? You been thinking about my cock in your mouth for a while, you think I didn't see the way you looked? Blushing like that, _Christ,_ I know you. That the best you can do, Rogers?”

It's terrible - it's _cruel,_ dismissive and taunting - and Steve feels tears spring to the corner of his eyes even as he slides his mouth further down the barrel. It shouldn't get him hot, god _,_ it shouldn't but it does. It is. Maybe it's just that Bucky is actually acknowledging it, this unvoiced and aching thing that's hung between them so long.

Bucky's grip tightens in his hair before he lets go, touches his palm to Steve's cheek. Brushes the pad of his thumb against the wetness of Steve's lashes.

“Sweetheart, you know I don't mean it,” he says, softer. “God, look at you, Steve, you're so good for me, you know I don't mean it. That's it, use your tongue.” He pushes his fingers into Steve's mouth alongside the gun and Steve chokes, just a little. Lets himself close his eyes. Bucky's got him where he wants him - where Steve wants to be - and Steve feels strung up by it, all his secrets spilling open for Bucky to see.

“Your _fucking mouth_ ,” Bucky mutters, dark like he's furious. Hooks his fingers into the inside of Steve's cheek, rough, like he wants to see the shape of them. He'd be able to see it if he had his dick in Steve's mouth, Steve thinks. Would be able to touch the bulge of it in his cheek, see how it filled up Steve's mouth, and it makes him suck harder, cheeks hollowing. Bucky makes an inarticulate noise, and Steve opens his eyes, looks up at him. Sees how Bucky's pupils are blown black.

“Would you let me come down your throat?” Bucky asks, dangerous and quiet, and Steve shudders. “All over your face? Make a goddamn mess of you?”

“Yes,” Steve moans, ragged and indistinct around the barrel, “ _please_.” He reaches for Bucky's belt and Bucky pulls the gun out of his mouth, slaps him open-handed and stinging.

“That ain’t what this is about,” he says, voice nothing but a growl, “you fuckin’ know it.” Holds Steve by the chin, keeping his face still, and traces the muzzle of the gun along Steve’s lower lip. “You're a goddamn danger junkie,” he tells Steve, “getting punched in the mouth ain't enough for you anymore, you're so big now. What else you want, Steve? You wanna kiss the face of death, huh, is that it?” And then he's pulling his hand away, digging in his pocket. A single bullet, gleaming in his palm, and Steve hears his own breath stutter and catch.

“Do it,” he says, no hesitation even as he hears how his voice is raw like he's actually had Bucky's cock all the way down his throat. “Bucky, do it.”

“Jesus,” Bucky swears, but he flicks open the chamber, loads the gun. Spins the cylinder just the way he would for Russian roulette, the way Steve’s seen bored soldiers play it when the officers aren’t looking. Cocks it, and when he points the gun back at Steve's mouth, Steve sees how his hand trembles, minute. Steve sways forward. Kisses the muzzle, keeping his eyes locked on Bucky's face, and when Bucky reaches for him with his other hand, Steve catches his wrist, kisses his fingertips slow.

“Don't,” Bucky says, rough. Takes him by the chin again so that Steve feels pinioned in place, and Steve gasps, breathy. Feels desperate and sharply hurt that Bucky won't let him kiss him.

 _That ain't what this is about_ , he thinks, and thinks he understands. This is Bucky giving Steve what he needs. That's all. He's so hard it’s painful, a pulsing ache in his groin: if he touched himself even once he'd come, he thinks. If Bucky touched him, he-

“Open,” Bucky says, and Steve lets his mouth fall open, obedient. His lips feel swollen and slick, red like they've been rouged, _fuck_ , maybe Bucky’d paint them up pretty, let him leave a ring of lipstick around the barrel of his gun. Steve's been wanting for years, is the honest truth. Wanting all these things, knowing he shouldn't, and he's never been strong enough to admit to himself what he admits now: he wants to be wrecked. Wants Bucky to do the wrecking. It's honest enough that he chokes on it. Feels flayed raw just from Bucky's hand on his jaw and the way he's looking at him, icily intent.

Bucky's finger shifts to the trigger. Steve feels his eyes flutter closed, and Bucky grips his chin harder, fingers like steel along Steve's jaw. He'll have bruises by morning, blooming dark above his collar: it doesn't _matter,_ they're at war, nobody's gonna notice and if they do they ain’t gonna care.

“Look at me,” Bucky tells him, his voice brooking no argument, and Steve forces his eyes open. Holds Bucky's gaze. “You want this, huh? Tell me you want it.”

“Please,” Steve says, muffled against metal; it's humiliating, the way it sounds, but he tries again. “Please. Do it.”

“Fuck,” Bucky says, sounding shaky. “Why you gotta be like this, Steve. Why you gotta-”

“Please,” Steve begs, not even sure what he's asking for. _Please touch me, please wreck me, please come down my throat just the way you promised._ Bucky has a gun and Bucky is a gun, a weapon to be used, and perhaps it's unfair to use him this way but he started it, is the thing. It was Bucky who made it real. He's all threat of violence and Steve doesn't know whether it's that he trusts him or wants to be hurt. Maybe it's both.

Bucky pulls the trigger. The click of the empty chamber is louder than Steve's breathing, louder than his heartbeat. Louder than the painful noise Bucky makes, soft, in the back of his throat.

Bucky pulls the trigger, and Steve comes so hard his ears ring and his vision whites out. He pitches forward, catches himself on his hands. He's shaking, a fine tremor under his skin that he can't seem to stop, and Bucky lets his right hand fall to his side, grabs Steve by the hair and pulls his head back painfully hard.

“Look at you,” he says, with something like wonder. Steve blinks up at him, vision swimming; he can’t quite focus on Bucky’s face. Hears something in his voice. It sounds like it hurts; Bucky’s hold on Steve’s hair tightens even more, clutching at him, and Steve tears up again with how it stings.

“Bucky-” he starts, and Bucky lets him go. Looks down at the gun in his hand.

“What the fuck is wrong with me, huh? What’d they put in me, that I’d do that to you.”

“You didn’t,” Steve says, “you _didn’t_ ,” and Bucky laughs once, short and painful.

“No,” he agrees, “I didn’t.” Drops something out of his cuff into his palm: the bullet, slipped up his sleeve so swift Steve never noticed. Bucky’s always been quick with his fingers. It doesn't matter; it was real to Steve, in that loud moment before the gun fired. But if Bucky _knew_ , why did he- his hands were shaking, why'd he-

Steve feels thick-headed in the wake of his orgasm, tongue-tied and confused. There’s something about the twist of Bucky’s mouth that’s bitter, sharp in a way that cuts like knives, and Steve knows he’s missed something.

“We're never doing that again,” Bucky says. “You hear me? I'm never shooting you again, sweetheart, Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and, “okay, yeah, Buck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky tells him. Smiles, a flash of teeth. “It’s fine. Go clean yourself up, you punk, you’re a mess.”

His lip stings. Mouth tastes of metal. He swipes his tongue over his top lip, finds it bleeding where the scope scraped it. There's a metallic noise: Bucky dropping the bullet onto the floor like he doesn't want to touch it anymore. Bullets make that noise when they're dropping out of Steve, working their way loose from a body that won't hold them in.

They don't talk about it again.

 

* * *

 

He picks up the bullet when Bucky isn’t looking. Puts it in his pocket like a keepsake, a fucking lock of hair; it's pathetically sentimental but he keeps it anyway. Brushes his fingers against it, sometimes, when he's about to walk into battle. A lucky charm, maybe.

 

* * *

  

It’s a- it’s a _goddamn joke_ , Steve thinks. Slips his hand into his pocket and Bucky’s gone but his bullet’s still right here. And maybe it’s just grief, maybe it’s just shock and pain numbed over by the cold, but Steve lets himself follow through. Bucky's revolver is gone, of course - into a canyon, into the ice - but they're standard issue. Not hard to find, even though Steve doesn't carry one himself.

He loads it with a single bullet. Leaves it on the table next to the bottle of whisky, looking at it every time he throws back a shot.

He can’t get drunk. Perhaps he can’t die either. Turns out he’s not low enough to test the theory, but when the plane goes down, he’s still got that fucking bullet in his pocket, coldly unforgiving.

 

* * *

  

Steve thinks, when he wakes up, that it might not be the same. He’s alive in a new world.

He discovers he’s wrong almost as quick.

“Captain,” Rumlow says, one eyebrow raised. It's almost the way Bucky had said it, and entirely different: low and mean, putting Steve in his place, and Steve shivers. Turns the gesture into fastening the chinstrap of his helmet, as if that'll cover it, and when he looks up, Rumlow is watching like he's curious.

Jesus, Steve thinks bleakly, it’s like he imprinted on assholes with dark hair and stubble and a thing for guns. He knows without consciously considering it just what Rumlow would be like: rough, all swagger, maybe a little casually cruel. It makes Steve breathe faster, makes him swallow hard, and when he glances back again at Rumlow all gum-chewing efficiency as he loads his gun, Steve feels the familiar flush creep up past his collar.

“Doing okay, Cap?” Rumlow asks, and shit, Steve can hear it: he knows Rumlow knows. They both get what’s going on here.

 _Please_ , he thinks of saying. Thinks of falling to his knees, offering his mouth up, and then Natasha touches his shoulder, passes him his earpiece. The moment breaks.

It never quite comes up again. Steve sees it in Rumlow’s eyes, the way he looks at him, but it’s like neither of them are gonna shift first. And Jesus, the way Steve feels when he realizes. Sick with shame in that elevator, and the worst of it is, his body still reacts the same way.

 

* * *

 

Here's a secret Steve will never share: when he’s fighting the Winter Soldier, his body knows before he does.

There is a fraction of a moment where the Soldier grabs him. Where his body says, _oh_ , and _you remember this._ The fine line between attraction and danger, between violence and arousal, and Steve doesn’t understand, until he does. The mask falling away, and _who the hell is Bucky_ , but this isn’t the first time Bucky’s looked at him so cold or so dangerous.

 _What the fuck is wrong with me_ , Bucky had said, but Steve thinks he knows where the fault lies. Which one of them it is who's flawed right through.

 

* * *

  

“I don't think he's the kind you save,” Sam says, and, “he doesn't know you.”

“He will,” Steve says. _He will_.

 

* * *

 

Steve knew, after all, Steve knew all the way through to his heart before he should have been able to, before he knew he knew it, and he’s still got a bullet in his pocket and a promise echoing through his bones.

He doesn’t even really think about how he believes it, until the bullet smacks his thigh. Knocks him off his feet. _I’m never shooting you again_ , and the gun goes off, echoingly loud.

His body doesn’t spit the bullets out. That’s not how it works. They’ll ease loose, in time; it ain’t like he’ll die of it, the bullet or the blood loss. Doesn’t stop it from hurting, though; Jesus it hurts, enough his brain goes blank. The rush of white noise behind his eyes.

 _You broke his arm first_ , he tells himself, _it’s only fair_ , and pulls himself up. Stumbles to the control panel.

His ears are ringing so much he doesn’t hear the last shot. It just punches through him, nothing but heat and pain, and his mouth hurts where Bucky punched him and there’s, there’s blood on his fingertips and on his tongue, he can taste metal, he can-

“Do it,” he says, and if this is how he goes it’s not so bad.

 _I’m never shooting you again_ , Bucky told him once, and Steve believes him, until the end.

 

* * *

 

Maybe watching Bucky load a gun is just something Steve’s gonna face at intervals for the next thousand years, is the thing, because here they are, here he is, the two of them in the belly of a jet waiting to land, and Bucky’s hands on the rifle are just the same as they’ve always been, even as they’re not. Steve doesn’t try not to look, this time. Lets himself linger, brave for once.

Bucky glances up and Steve sees that he knows. That he’s remembering.

“Bucky-” Steve starts, throat tight, and Bucky frowns, glacially slow. There’s a lot about his face that Steve doesn’t recognize, these days, familiar features surrounded by unfamiliarity, and he wonders for the first time if that’s what it was like for Bucky, back when Steve first found him in a war that never seems to fucking end. If Bucky looked at Steve and thought, _yes. Your eyes are the same. Your mouth. I remember that._

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Looks away, and then back at Steve, and Steve can see how it’s unfolding behind his eyes. Of all the things to come back, of course it’d be this, of course it would, and Bucky’s mouth curls at the corner like he’s maybe fucking _amused_ by it.

“What,” Steve says. “What.”

“I can’t believe you let me-” Bucky says, and stops. Chews his lip. “Oh,” he says, softer, painful, and Steve doesn’t know what he might be remembering now but whatever it is, Bucky’s mouth twists again, bitter.

There’s only one thing Steve can do. Feels desperate, wordless, and he drops to his knees in front of Bucky. Doesn’t look up at him, just waits in the lengthening silence. Listens to Bucky draw breath.

When Bucky touches his chin, it’s with metal fingers, warmer than Steve expects. He tilts Steve’s face up, gentle, and Steve feels his lips part. Bucky looks curious, maybe, but not upset. Chewing his lip like he’s thinking hard, a habit Steve’s seen so many hundreds of times that seeing it again claws into his chest, leaves his breath hitching and uneven.

Bucky brushes his fingers to Steve’s mouth. Lets him tongue at them before sliding them in, cool on his tongue. They taste of metal, a little of gunpowder; Bucky must know, Bucky _must_ know, and Steve makes a ragged noise, dragged out of him.

“You need this,” Bucky says, and it’s not phrased like a question but Steve nods anyway. Feels Bucky’s thumb tighten against his jaw, holding him in place. “You needed this.”

“Yes,” Steve whispers, indistinct around Bucky’s fingers. He’s beyond shame or embarrassment; this is simply the truth of it.

“I can’t be the weapon you want me to be,” Bucky tells him, stroking his thumb very gently over Steve’s lower lip, and Steve feels the shiver all the way down his spine.

“That’s not-” he starts. _That’s never what I wanted from you_ , is what he wants to say, except it is. It was. A danger junkie, just like Bucky said: he wants to feel the burn of it. Bucky lets his right hand drift to the handgun holstered on his hip, as if he’s proving a point, and Steve flushes hot.

“Don’t lie to me, Rogers,” Bucky says. “This ain’t what you want?” Pulls his fingers out of Steve’s mouth like he’s letting him reply, traces them wet along Steve’s jaw. Steve presses into the touch. Swallows hard before he says anything.

“That’s not all I want,” he says instead, not letting himself look away from Bucky’s face, and catches how Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” Bucky says, quiet. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to-” Steve starts. Doesn’t know how to finish. _You don’t have to hurt me. You could wreck me just holding me here, your hand on my jaw, don’t you know how you got me like this._

“Look at you,” Bucky says instead, his voice soft. Touches Steve’s mouth again, and Steve takes a risk. Kisses Bucky’s fingertips. Half expects Bucky to pull his hand away - _that ain’t what this is about_ \- but he doesn’t; just presses his fingers to the dip of Steve’s lip, and holds him there on his knees, and for one moment, it’s enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmm hmmm HMMMMM
> 
> so the thing is, right, the THING IS, radialarch was all "I don't know why there isn't more Steve/Bucky gun kink", and I was like, YOU ARE SO RIGHT, and then six months later my brain was all, hey remember that thing
> 
> anyway don't try this at home, i guess
> 
> come say hi [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
